


Make Me Your Finest Shackles

by Papillonae



Series: LietPol Week (2018) [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Despair, F/F, Female Prussia mention, Female Russia mention, Historical, Imprisonment, Jan Matejko, Prisoner of War, Violence, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: 1863, immediately after the failed January Uprising. Based on the Jan Matejko painting, "Polonia - Rok 1863" (1864).Written for LietPol Week, Day 7: Historical.





	Make Me Your Finest Shackles

**Author's Note:**

> And thus, we have finally come to the conclusion of the LietPol Week submissions.
> 
> When trying to decide on a story for this prompt, I vaguely remembered a post that Jes (@still-intrepid) made about the Jan Matejko painting "Polonia - Rok 1863" and wondering why no one had written any fanfiction based off of it. I remember responding something along the lines of "this post is about 2-3 years old... surely there's something?" to which the response was "You say that. But..."
> 
> So, naturally, here is a fanfic based off of the story of a painting...

Poland can barely catch her footing before she is roughly shoved into a room full of strangers. Lithuania stumbles in not too far behind her. The dimness of the room is a striking contrast to the bright sun reflecting off of the snow outside, and she has to squint and blink several times to adjust.

The two women are clothed in simple dresses that were forced upon them. Lithuania’s hair is unbraided, cascading and curling. She wears a white dress -  _as if she’s getting married_ , Poland realizes with horror - and Poland herself is dressed in black.

A fitting choice for what would be her funeral.

The men in the enemy uniforms are all staring at them as if they are fantastic creatures -  _prizes_. They all sneer and snicker, and some even begin preliminary celebrations with drink.

Poland hears Lithuania behind her breathing heavily with something between rage and fear. She agrees: it stings, and it’s in poor taste.

There are people here who are also familiar, all of them fellow captives. Poland tries to ignore the woman lying facedown on the floor, tries to ignore the peculiar ruddy stain from underneath her head. Her attentions move toward the nuns and the children seated on the floor. They cower together, the nuns singing sweet hymns though their red-wept eyes betray hope for despair. Poland looks upon the friar sitting beside the injured man, holding his hand and looking up resignedly as if they had both given up on God. She spares a piteous glance at the woman in the middle of the crowd, hiding her face as she weeps loudly and openly.

They are all meeting the same fate - Siberia. The ultimate cost of defeat. For some, it is the same as death.

The final familiar faces Poland sees are the ones before her: her captors - Russia and Prussia - and one of Poland’s own: a humble blacksmith. He stands between the two women in uniform with two long chains and iron shackles in his hands. An anvil rests at his feet. He is unable to meet the intensity of Poland’s gaze, and instead looks resignedly at his feet.

As Poland approaches the anvil, she is roughly turned around by her captors. The action tears her sleeve open. The men laugh and applaud and made lewd gestures in her direction. She grits her teeth. Then the officers push down on her shoulders, forcing her into a kneel. Her bare arms are stretched over the flat, cold expanse of the anvil, and a shiver runs down her spine. Before her captors, she straightens herself, mustering up what little dignity she has left to offer her people as they watch.

She refuses to look them in the eyes, the two women with hair the color of sheepskin and eyes stained the color of blood. She knows that only Prussia is looking directly down at her with a wicked grin that pierces through her. She knows she's already being divvied up in her mind once again. And she knows that Russia is looking hungrily over her head, over at Lithuania. She seethes, unable to do much else but steal glances over at the blacksmith as he sets to work on her fetters.

Behind her, she hears Lithuania struggle against the officers as they, too, push her forward. She doesn’t say anything out loud, but Poland can hear her protesting with grunts and growls. She hears the curses of the men trying to restrain her with little success.  _Bless her_ , Poland thinks with a fluttering ache in her chest,  _she is not one who is easily tamed_. She knows this. She tried. Lithuania isn't one to acquiesce peacefully to demands.

It’s only now that she’s reached her limit that Poland realizes just how much she needs Lithuania to keep fighting… just as she did over four hundred years ago... for her sake. For _their_ sake...

There is something like a  _thwack_  that suddenly rings sharp through the air, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Poland winces. She doesn’t need to turn around to know that someone had made Lithuania compliant. No doubt it was one of the officers with the butt of their muskets. Her blood boils and she bites her tongue. _How dare they touch her, how dare they strike Lithuania..._ my _Lietuva...!_

In spite of her rage, she needs to remain strong.

When Poland dares to turn her head around to look at Lithuania, she sees that her temple is wet with blood from where she was struck. She is still conscious, but dazed. It's hard to see her this way, yet Poland manages to smile for her, one last time.

Even if Lithuania hates her for all that she’s done… even if they are both to meet their end here… Poland has loved her for all the centuries they spent together in that Golden Unity, so warm and far away in the summer of her memories. And even if she's completely ripped right off the maps - torn from the annals of history - she will always,  _always_ , come back for her... and love her for centuries after…

“ _Be strong, Lietuva_ ,” she wants to say, but when they lock eyes and she sees the tears streaming down Lithuania’s face, she can’t bring herself to vocalize it.

She shudders as Lithuania sobs hysterically and cries out her name - her  _true_  name - and begs her to fight, to yell, to do  _something_ …!

And Poland wants to, oh she so badly wants to...

But she is just so tired…

Her smile falters. Her heart  _aches_. She can hardly breathe.

The officers roughly grab Lithuania by her arms and force her to stand, leaving Poland alone before the anvil, her captors, and the blacksmith - the only friend she has left.

“I have one request,” Poland says firmly and quietly to him as he kneels to clasp the iron around her wrists, “make me your finest shackles, that I may recognize you as the last and greatest Polish blacksmith.”

He still refuses to look her in the eye, even as they both begin to weep.


End file.
